


I Locked You Out; You Cut A Hole In The Wall

by jesshelga



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cuddling and Snuggling, Gen, M/M, Masturbation, Post Reichenbach, deduction as foreplay, nearly resolved sexual tension, who's seducing who?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-19
Updated: 2012-04-22
Packaged: 2017-11-03 22:42:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jesshelga/pseuds/jesshelga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock would like to know John's fantasy; John offers up something unexpected but easily accomplished.</p><p>And it's not about sex. Maybe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Locked You Out; You Cut A Hole In The Wall

**Author's Note:**

> Not Brit-picked, thought I tried to use what little I remembered of London's geography from a few school trips and research it out a bit.
> 
> Takes place in an unspecified time between s1 and s2, if only to prove Irene Adler was right all along, and the two of them *are* a couple.
> 
> Title from James's "Laid," ha ha ha irony.

The case had ended on a more unsettling note than usual: after a week of nonstop evidence-gathering and Sherlockian extrapolation, Lestrade and his team had been led to a very average-seeming bank employee, who shared that his marriage had never exactly satisfied--John would never forget the way the man had said the word, as though what followed were the only logical conclusion--his desires, so he had taken to visiting prostitutes on a fairly regular basis to play out his fantasies... which took a turn from violent to homicidal, resulting in the disturbing mutilations and deaths of four women. The New Ripper, the papers had called him, had finally been caught.

In the cab on the way back to Baker Street, John considered calling into Sarah for a prescription of a reliable, dreamless sleep aid, leaving Sherlock to his own thoughts, which were silent and unknowable.

Or so John thought, until Sherlock said, quite unexpectedly, “Do you have an unsatisfied fantasy, John? One you’ve never shared with anyone?”

John found himself first looking to the cab driver, who appeared not to hear anything because he was engrossed in his own conversation on a Bluetooth. He turned his startled expression to Sherlock. “What?”

Sherlock’s immediate reply was to pull his usual face over John saying “What?”

Looking at the cab driver a second time, John gritted, “That’s not really a topic I’d like to discuss at present.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Because we’re in a cab?”

“Yes, and because I feel like I won’t be able to scour off the events of the last week unless I start using steel wool in the shower.”

“With your pedestrian taste in pornography, I’m fairly confident any fantasy you’re harboring, John, will not be of eviscerating prostitutes.” Sherlock addressed his observation to his window.

“You _really_ need to work on the way you serve compliments.”

Sherlock’s voice contained the hint of a smile as he said, “It was in no way intended as a compliment.”

* * *

Later that evening, as they puttered around the flat--Sherlock nursing his decomposition experiments and John making tea and sandwiches--the subject arose again.

“It’s my understanding that fantasies are a fairly regular part of an average person’s internal life,” Sherlock said.

“Do you have them?” John asked while spreading cream cheese on bread.

“Of course not. How tedious.” The reply was unsurprising, but amusing to John nonetheless.

“And when you say fantasies, you’re asking about sexual fantasies, or fantasies in general?”

Sherlock put down his forceps, took off his goggles, and fixed John with a curious look. “I suppose we could be talking about ‘in general.’”

“Must you emphasize things I say like that?”

“Don’t be oversensitive, John.”

The two of them shared a look for a moment or two. Then John returned to applying cream cheese to bread.

John began to speak, low but steady. “You and I get in a row, one of the rows where I lose my temper and need to go out. But I’m not up for a pint, not up for a film, not up for visiting Stamford or Greg. I just want to be alone for one night, away from Baker Street. So I find a hotel, rent a room for the night. Watch some telly, order in, fall asleep...and then at some ungodly hour of the night, I wake up and you’re sitting there. You’ve found me, not because you followed me, but because you deduced where I’d gone. And you explain how you’d done it without managing to insult me too much.”

He raised his eyes to find Sherlock looking at him with an expression that could almost be called wonderment. “Then?”

John started distributing cucumber slices and wrinkled his brow. “‘Then’ what? Go back to the flat, I suppose.”

“Wouldn’t you be angry?”

“About?”

“Your whole intention in this fantasy is to escape my presence for the night. I appear, manage to work my way into the room that you’ve rented... and you’d simply come home after all that?”

John shrugged. “Suppose so.”

“You _suppose?_ ”

“See? I’m not being oversensitive. You’re doing it again.” John said this around a bite of sandwich. 

He pushed a plate across to Sherlock, who shook his head impatiently. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“I guess that’s what makes it a daydream.”

Sherlock removed his goggles from the top of his head. “When did you first start having this...daydream?”

Amused, John said, “Sherlock, if you’re going to become my therapist, I have to admit I have some reservations.”

“Don’t obfuscate, John.”

It seemed appropriate to poke fun at Sherlock’s grand choice of verb, but the seriousness of Sherlock’s stare suggested it was best to give him what he wanted. “Goes back to the bomb, I suppose. The first one that destroyed the building across the way while I was out getting a breath of air.” Sherlock shot him a glance that implied “You mean ‘out trying, very unsuccessfully, to have sex with Sarah’,” which John roundly ignored. “Maybe it started after the pool. If I had to put meaning to it, I’d say I’m comforted by the fact that you and I always manage to find each other.”

“We find each other after a row about an unidentified topic?” Sherlock asked skeptically.

“I’m also comforted by the familiar and predictable,” John replied with a twitch of his lips.

* * *

The next morning, while John read the paper, pleasantly surprised by the sound night’s sleep he’d gotten, he was greeted by a cup of tea thrust unceremoniously in his face. “Cheers,” he said after pushing Sherlock’s hand back several centimeters to properly receive the mug.

“I think we should test your scenario.” Something about the way Sherlock said it, all business and determination, made it sound positively _filthy_. John shifted uncomfortably, unsure why _that_ was his involuntary reaction.

Figuring he’d start with the most logical protest, John asked, “But...how can we _plan_ a row?”

“The row is inconsequential. You could set out tonight, after your tedious football program is over. I’d wait until midnight to begin my search to simulate the time I’d spend visiting your two favorite pubs and texting and calling Lestrade and Stamford.”

John pictured in his mind’s eye Sherlock’s badgering messages to his two colleagues and his frustration upon discovering John wasn’t with either of them. “You didn’t mention the time you’d spend texting or calling me.”

“You’d be ignoring me. You always do when you’re annoyed.”

John tried to think of another reason to protest besides _This makes me feel uncomfortable, like we are two married people who are spicing up our love life, which is_ ridiculous, _since we spent the better part of our week chasing a serial killer... not that I consider chasing killers to be foreplay or sex... I mean, that whole business was the_ opposite _of sexy. Besides, the fact remains..._

“John?”

“Hmm?”

“Could you hurry your internal monologue along and agree so that I can begin my day?”

Sighing with exasperation, John snipped, “You can’t _bully_ me into participating in my own fan...day...oh, bloody hell, _scenario._.”

Sherlock smirked. “I take it that’s a ‘yes’ then?”

John rolled his eyes, sipped his tea, and said, “Fine. Bugger off so I can read the paper.”

* * *

That evening, after _Football’s Next Star_ (John’s tedious football program), John picked up his wallet and keys and turned to watch Sherlock wander in from the kitchen to his music stand and violin.

“Well, I’ll be off then,” John announced, feeling uncomfortably rooted to the floor.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, then his bow. “Would you like to make the scenario more in keeping with the original?”

Curious but also fully preparing to be angry, John asked, “What do you mean?”

“I’ve deleted your blog.”

“...What?”

“Deleted. Your. Blog.” Sherlock staccatoed, punctuating the space between each word with a cheerful note on the violin.

“You’re joking. You’re...you’ve got to be joking.”

Sherlock remained pointedly silent.

John found it somewhat easier to move his feet. He grabbed his coat and said, “You didn’t. I know you wouldn’t, just to...you wouldn’t. But if you _did,_ I’ll expect that you backed it up, because you wouldn’t want me to smother you in your sleep.”

Sherlock began playing scales, his back to John.

Under his breath, John said, “Wanker. Just winding me up because he knows he can.” Then, louder, so that Sherlock could hear him over the scales, “Because you _know_ you _can._ ”

After pounding down the stairs and hailing a cab out of habit, John wished he’d headed back up the stairs to grab his laptop. Then he imagined Sherlock had prepared for that as a possibility and hid it somewhere, or sold it to a pawnshop, or surrendered as phony evidence to Lestrade, and he quietly seethed until he asked to be let off at a tube stop ten minutes later.

* * *

John found a chain hotel in Canary Wharf and checked in under his own name. He supposed he could try to be clever, but the fact was, part of the scene he’d had in his head was that Sherlock would say something like, “You considered checking in under a pseudonym but after some thought, you found you simply didn’t have the creativity necessary.”

After checking in, John’s first stop was at the business center, where he confirmed that Sherlock had not deleted his blog. Relieved and pleasantly surprised, he made his way to the hotel’s restaurant for an early dinner.

It was an odd business, eating on his own. Not that Sherlock routinely ate while in a restaurant with him. But while John ate, Sherlock was hardly ever silent. Or if he was silent, he was thinking, which filled a certain amount of space. John perused his newspaper, but found himself getting distracted by the other patrons, wondering what Sherlock would make of the large family causing a great deal of noise at one of the center tables; or the couple that would seem cozy and romantic were it not for the suspicious way the bloke kept casting nervous glances around (probably a cheater; never as subtle as they wanted to be); or the tired conference attendees barely able to stir interest in their meals, let alone each other.

Afterwards, he stopped by the gift shop and bought a bag of crisps, a discounted Jeffrey Archer paperback, and a postcard, an oversaturated, oversized monstrosity graced with a picture of the London Eye, then headed up to his room to turn in.

The telly was predictably disappointing, and John bounced between a snooker tourney and a rerun of The Simpsons as he considered the blank space on the postcard. It seemed fitting to write “Wish you were here” as a sort of joke. But in the oppressive calm of the room, where no one was mixing noxious solutions or sawing away at a violin or talking out complex theories about theft or murder, gave more life to the cliche than John thought possible. After all, he’d just seen Sherlock three hours ago. John often left for weekenders with girlfriends or on expeditions for a case. Why did Sherlock’s absence now feel so unbearable?

John wondered how far along Sherlock was in tracking him down. For all he knew, Sherlock was hiding out in the bloody restaurant while John ate his ham and cheese.

The thought was comforting. John dashed off “Wish you were here,” then added “PS Cheers for not deleting my blog, arse.” He set it up against the telephone on the desk, then stripped down to his tee and boxers, washed his face and brushed his teeth, then ate his crisps as the snooker tourney wrapped up.

As a second thought, he put his shoes out in the hallway to be polished, slipping the extra key card into the left one. John hoped, rather than believed, Sherlock would take the easy way in and avoid calling in a favor from Lestrade to get him out of an arrest for breaking a window or impersonating an officer.

* * *

John found himself swimming out of a murky dream, one that involved explaining to Sherlock that the man he’d seen in the hotel restaurant was probably stepping out on a wife or girlfriend, and Sherlock’s response was a peculiar look as he asked, “What makes you say that, John?” And suddenly they were at one of the murder scenes, a woman--more like a girl--horribly bloody, missing chunks of skin. 

“Wasn’t enough. Not satisfied, I suppose,” John replied, shaking his head to try and get the image out of his eyes, out of his mind.

And Sherlock took his hand.

* * *

John opened his eyes to find Sherlock sitting on the bed beside him, turning the postcard over in his hands.

Rubbing the grit out of his eyes and yawning hugely, John mumbled, “What time is it?”

“3 AM. Very nice touch with the postcard.”

“Ta.” John considered Sherlock’s profile, looming above him as John continued to lie down. “What possessed you to say you’d deleted my blog?”

There was a very obvious smirk in Sherlock’s tone when he replied, “I suppose even _I_ am not immune to the occasional fantasy.”

John sighed heavily and wished he had the energy to punch Sherlock in the side of the head. “Can’t imagine it took you three hours to find me.”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Well, out with it,” John smiled.

“I assumed you’d hail a cab out of habit, but your sense of economy would limit the distance traveled. Therefore, you’d get dropped off at a Tube stop, then head for an area of the city that would be populated with business travelers so that accommodations would be comfortable and well-kept but spartan, intended for business travelers, preferably domestic rather than international. Therefore: Canary Wharf.”

“Why not out by Gatwick or Heathrow?”

“Too far on the tube. You’d consider it, to cause me inconvenience, but the reward would come long after making the tedious, crowded trip out that way yourself.”

“Okay, so how’d you figure out which hotel?”

“A brand name. Nothing too expensive but nothing that would remind you of your depressing bedsit. Restaurant onsite too--despite mentioning ordering in in your original scenario, you’d want to spend some time out of the room before turning in. Restaurant would be the easiest way to do so.”

“And how’d you get to my room?”

“Created an urgent need for towels in the pool area, got a peek into the hotel’s registration system. You registered under your own name--not very creative, by the bye.”

John closed his eyes and shifted down into the bed, making himself cozy. “Hmm, that seems like cheating to me.”

Sherlock’s voice contained the hint of a scold. “No more cheating than supplying me with a key.”

Shrugging, John drifted near the edges of sleep for a moment, then opened his eyes again. “How’d you create an ‘urgent need for’... never mind, I think I figured it out.” John pictured a whirlpool filled with formerly clean and dry, now soaked and useless towels; or an open window and carefully manicured hedges loaded with terrycloth.

Sherlock’s sly half-smile told John that he was very likely right.

A quiet minute passed as Sherlock continued to rotate the postcard between his fingertips and John tried to determine whether he could get away with 15 more minutes of sleep. Then Sherlock said, “John?”

“Hmm?”

“If you were planning on heading back to the flat after being discovered, why are you undressed?”

John’s eyes fluttered open. “What do you mean?”

“If you were confident I’d find you and that we’d return to the flat shortly after my arrival, why didn’t you keep your clothes on when you turned in?”

John furrowed his brow in confusion. “I don’t know. Habit? Comfort?”

Sherlock was glancing down at him, a skeptical, almost nervous expression on his face.

Throwing back the covers and very nearly tripping over the nightstand in an effort to put some distance between him and Sherlock, John stammered incredulously, “Surely... _surely_ you don’t think I was...that...”

“I can’t answer if you can’t produce the question, I can’t answer it...however, if the query you’re clumsily trying to express is, ‘Did I think you were planning a seduction?’ then...possibly.”

John felt himself blushing, which made him irritated, which made him even redder. “A _seduction?_ Wearing a ratty gray tee shirt and smelling like salt and vinegar?”

Sherlock continued his Sphinxlike posture against the headboard. “Yes, why _do_ you insist on eating after brushing your teeth, John. I imagine your dentist would have a sermon to deliver on that subject.”

For a moment, John considered the advantages of clubbing his flatmate to death with a paperback novel he didn’t really intend to read. “Now who’s _obsfucating,_ Sherlock? I thought we covered this subject ages ago in Angelo’s: I’m not after you, primarily because I’m straight, and secondarily because I often think of pummeling you. I’m thinking about it now, in fact.”

Sherlock stood and faced John from across the queen-sized bed, and a dangerous-feeling crackle went through the air.

“You slept on one side of the bed, when you usually take up the center portion, suggesting you were expecting someone to share the other side. You didn’t shower, as you normally do in the evening, suggesting you were planning one later. Why later? Anticipating getting a little sweaty perhaps? No evidence of self-pleasuring, which must have taken a tremendous amount of restraint on your part...”

That broke the tension a little. “Oi, I’m not some kind of sex maniac. I can manage to spend a few hours on my own without wanking off.”

Sherlock’s deduction trance cleared, and John discovered that he had taken at least four good-sized paces backwards, essentially backing himself into a corner on the far side of the room. Casually, Sherlock began to make his way across the room, and John found himself thinking of the word quarry like he had a skip in his brain.

“How much time did you spend thinking about my progress this evening?” Sherlock punctuated his question by deliberately setting the postcard down on the desk with a casual _fwick!_ of one corner. The noise sounded like a gunshot in the hush of the room.

“You’re very sure of yourself.” The jesting tone took a great deal of effort on John’s part and went unrewarded.

“Yes.” Sherlock replied simply. “Answer the question.”

“Not much. I did...wonder what you would’ve thought of the restaurant, the people in the restaurant. What you would have figured out about them.”

“A daydream within a daydream. How droll.”

“Sherlock, you’re being very...odd. More odd than usual, that is. And determined. And I don’t know how else to say I didn’t intend this to be...well, I didn’t intend to do _any_ of this, but I especially didn’t intend to...” John fumbled over the word “waylay you,” which seemed to have a double meaning he _absolutely, in no way_ wanted to imply, “...well, I didn’t intend anything, other than to let you have your way and get a moment’s peace. Like I said at the start: not _sexual_ , just...a daydream. Which has concluded.” With no small amount of aggravation, John tacked on, in his mind. With that, he crossed his arms against his chest and tried to project an air of confidence it was hard to feel in one’s underpants.

Sherlock stopped at a safe and respectable three-pace distance, considered John from head to toe. After a moment or two passed, he smiled one of his trying-to-pass-for-a-regular-bloke smiles and said, “Very well. Let’s head back to Baker Street, shall we?”

John wasn’t sure whether to scream bloody murder or collapse with relief. Or, he supposed, the third option would be to use the element of surprise, tackle Sherlock to the bed, and put his tongue in Sherlock’s ear. That would serve him right, pinning him to the bed and making him suffer.

 _He’d suffer, wouldn’t he?_ John thought, looking at Sherlock’s proper posture and immaculate coat and dress shirt and slacks, pictured him squirming away from the physical contact, breathing hard...

 _Damn it. Well, now_ that’s _rattling around taking up headspace._

By the time Sherlock turned to face him, the Archer paperback held with three fingers like a soiled nappy, John was suitably composed.

“Why on _earth_ would you buy a novel you have no intention of reading?” Sherlock asked, his voice equal parts exasperation and sneer.

Pulling his jumper over his head, John lied, “I have every intention of reading that. You know, someday.” When I’m not trying to figure out if you’re disappointed or relieved I wasn’t planning to have a go at you, he thought to himself.

As John put his pants on, Sherlock half-watched out of the corner of his eye. “That restaurant is 24 hours.”

“Yes.”

Sherlock remained silent, his version of patient.

“You want to go down there and impress me by showing off.”

A scowl darkened Sherlock’s features. John wondered what exactly it was about putting on his pants that made Sherlock think of... well, perhaps it was better to leave that unexplored for the time being. 

“Well. Happy birthday to me. Let’s go, you nutter.”


	2. I Found You Sleeping Next To Me; I Thought I Was Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock sharing a bed in three acts: one time it's Sherlock's request as a patient; one time it's Sherlock's suggestion after a scare; and one time, it's the two of them coming home again.
> 
> ("Lost" scenes from "A Scandal in Belgravia" and "The Hounds of Baskerville," then post-Reichenbach)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again not Brit-picked; not beta'ed either, since I was feeling impatient.
> 
> Chapter title from the James song "Laid." This time, the song has relevance; this chapter is for mature audiences.

**I. “Why Would I Need You?”**

It turned out that Sherlock Holmes could vomit. Just like any other regular human being.

John shouldn’t have been surprised, speaking as a medical professional. But as Sherlock’s friend, he had to admit to a degree of shock. Even more surprising was that Sherlock did not deduce it was about to happen and, therefore, had his head stuck in his wastebasket rather than in a toilet as God, man, and most definitely John, would have intended. John had awoken to the sound of vomiting and flung open Sherlock’s bedroom door to find him sprawled on the floor, hands planted on either side of the bin, breathing heavily, nose running.

Good thing Lestrade had long gone, John thought to himself.

“All right; all right,” he repeated, patting Sherlock’s back. The undignified sound of Sherlock’s retching was his only reply.

After several minutes, Sherlock seemed spent. He pushed the bin forward and collapsed onto the floor, face first, groaning. “This was always the worst part,” he muttered into the carpet.

“Of what? Withdrawal? The _vomiting_ was the worst part?”

“The lack of _control._ Body managing all sorts of unpleasant processes and tasks, all without one’s consent.”

John moved his hand from Sherlock’s back to his hair, moving his fingers around, aiming for something soothing but feeling ill at ease, as though Sherlock were going to snap at him for being condescending any moment.

“You can’t lay here on the floor next to your own sick all night,” John teased after a significant time of silence and immobility on Sherlock’s part had elapsed.

“Why not?” Sherlock burred.

“My leg is falling asleep. You’ll get rug imprint on your face.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock tipped his face so that he was looking up at John, who stilled his hand for a moment in the thicket of hair at the base of Sherlock’s skull. “Your bedside manner is _delightful_.”

John furrowed his brow. “Are you having me on while you smell like you do?”

“No!” Sherlock’s vehemence was followed by a protracted groan. “Don’t make me shout; my diaphragm hurts.”

“Nobody’s making you shout.” John sighed, moving his hand between his flatmate’s shoulder blades, patting encouragingly. “How’s this: you sit up, have a drink or two of water, get into bed, and if you like it so much you’re willing to practically roll about in puke, I’ll mess about with your hair for a while longer until, hopefully, you are rendered unconscious.”

“ _Now_ you’re being condescending,” Sherlock muttered as he sat up, putting his back against the mattress.

“My apologies. I’m going to take this...”--indicating the befouled wastebasket--”...out of here. Here’s water. Please don’t pour it out, because I’m not cleaning it up, and it’ll make the carpet musty.”

“I _am_ aware of the effects of dehydration, John. One doesn’t need a doctorate in medicine to understand the balance of...”

“All right, arse. Just...drink it, yeah?”

Sherlock’s petulant manner of taking a draught, then mimicking soda-commercial refreshment would have been irritating if it weren’t so damn funny.

John dropped the bin in the sink, filled it with warm water and a liberal splash of bleach, and hoped to heaven he got back to it before Mrs. Hudson came up to fix breakfast. Grabbing a bucket from under the sink, he returned to Sherlock’s room, and found its resident was huddled on the left side of the bed, shivering under all the bedcovers.

“You okay?” John said, heading around to the other side.

“It’ll pass” was ground out through chattering teeth.

John lay on his side and said, “Probably don’t want me touching your hair at this point?”

Sherlock shook his head vehemently, then said, “I suppose it would trouble you and your obsession with people’s perception too much if I were to ask you to lie as close to me as you can until this passes.”

Rolling his eyes, John stood up, threw back the covers, and slid over until he was flush with Sherlock’s back (and backside, which, John realized with surprise, wasn’t as troubling as it should have been...though he supposed thinking about how untroubling it was indicated he _was_ thinking about it in a way that should be troubling). He threw an arm over Sherlock and gave him a firm squeeze. “How’s that?”

“Sufficient.”

“You do talk sweet. Too bad you smell like a pub floor after a Saturday night.”

“John?”

“Yeah?”

“While I appreciate that you are sharpening your writer’s tool, kindly shut up.”

* * *

John awoke, face buried in the nape of Sherlock’s neck, to the sound of Mrs. Hudson shouting, “Bloody _hell_!” at the no-doubt-fetid bin in her sink.

**II. “Sorry We Couldn’t Do A Double Room For You Boys”**

After all the kerfuffle on the moors, it was well into 3 a.m. when John and Sherlock made it back to the inn. Sherlock’s post-case mellowness made John envious, as he still hadn’t quite shaken the events in the lab, not to mention shooting a dog. He took off his shoes and settled in one of the armchairs by the window, prepared to watch the sun rise after reading more of the old De Mille novel he’d unearthed from the restaurant’s take one-leave one library.

“You once did me a service,” Sherlock said just above his shoulder, “when I was recovering from an unfortunate drugging.”

John looked up at him, feeling the exhaustion resulting from the last three days settling in around his eyes and in his shoulders. “Remember that, do you? By the time I assured Mrs. Hudson I didn’t expect her to clean up the simmering vomit in our sink, you’d headed into the shower. Then Mycroft showed up and...”

“Yes. ‘And’ about covers that.” Sherlock’s hands settled at the top of the chair. “Is there something I can... _do_ for you?”

There was a peculiar pinging somewhere in John’s chest that made him think of shrapnel, the way it hit an unintended target and rattled around. Only Sherlock’s genuine, reluctant kindness wasn’t fired from a gun and wasn’t meant to hurt.

It did anyway. John sat, quiet and motionless for several moments, looking out the window.

Sherlock settled a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Do you remember, after the murdered prostitutes and that bank employee, when you...shared that scenario about leaving the flat?”

John nodded.

“You said you were comforted, subconsciously, by the notion you and I would always find each other.”

“Yes. And then you accused me of planning some elaborate seduction.” John was sure to put a thread of amusement in his tone so that Sherlock wouldn’t take offense or get derailed from whatever kindness he was aiming for.

“Well... I’m still not certain I was _entirely_ wrong. You did have a particularly _focused_ expression on your face just as we were preparing to leave the room.”

“Me? You were the one who stalked me into a corner while I was in a state of undress, you great pervert. If anyone was trying to get a leg over...” The rest of John’s playful protest was drowned out by Sherlock’s mouth pressed to his own at an awkward angle, as Sherlock was half-dangling over the top of the armchair. John tasted sugary tea and heat, closed his eyes and found his mind blank and calm. Perhaps after the evening’s events, his body simply had no more epinephrine to give.

The kiss ended when Sherlock turned his head and took a seat on the arm of the chair, then whispered into John’s ear,“You are, on occasion, very astute, even if subconsciously.” John wasn’t sure if his friend was referring to the implication of seduction or the statement that the two of them would always find one another. He didn’t ask, as he was best trying to figure out how to stand up and get another kiss in, just for science, just to see if his mind was still empty of thought or panic.

But John found himself rooted to the chair. “This your way of doing something to help?”

“Perhaps. Does it help?”

“Does it...well, do you...I’m confused.”

Sherlock gave him a look that implied “That’s nothing new, is it?” to which John said, “Shut up,” though Sherlock really hadn’t _said_ the words. Then he followed with “Sherlock...” though he had no idea what he wanted to say or ask next.

“Yes, John?”

“What are we doing?”

“Passing the time until the sun comes up in a way that’s more soothing than reading the spy thriller you dug up.” John felt the brush of fingertips against his throat, just a hint of skin-on-skin contact that sent a hot charge of physical want into John’s core.

His throat tight, John swallowed hard and asked, “I thought ‘passing the time’ wasn’t your area?”

Sherlock shrugged. “‘Not my area’ didn’t imply I didn’t have any experience at all. Of course, I don’t remember a good portion of it, as I wasn’t always lucid at the time.”

“And why now?”

Another shrug. “It doesn’t have to be anything that is cause for some kind of emotional and psychological crisis on your part.”

John felt as though he must look something like an owl, all wide eyes and enormous pupils. “I’m pretty sure that this conversation is already giving me ample grounds for crisis.”

Sherlock slid down the length of the chair to his knees, almost as though someone had removed a significant portion of his skeletal system. John was disturbed by how erotic it was, how the sight was enough to begin to send blood coursing, expanding tissue, and all the rest of the glorious science of penile arousal.

“Hand or mouth?”

The question, with all its implications, in that rich, dark baritone, caused John to involuntarily move his hand to his groin and press down. “ _Jesus_ ” escaped his lips before he could catch it.

“No, John, though I can understand the confusion.” Sherlock began to unbutton his sleeves and roll up the wrists.

Biting his lower lip so hard he felt a pinch of pain, John watched Sherlock patiently await an answer. “I...don’t...this is...”

Clever, long fingers wove into John’s, and then there was a movement of bones that resulted in John massaging himself through his jeans. He threw his head back against the chair, closed his eyes, and moved his legs further apart.

John felt, rather than saw, Sherlock insinuate himself between John’s knees and begin to undo his fly, then work John free of his boxers. The question was repeated, “Hand or mouth?” and John felt as his hips twitched upwards in response.

“Just...just the hand.” John opened his eyes in time to see Sherlock lick his own palm several times. He drove his teeth into his lower lip again, searched for the bolt of pain that would tell him he wasn’t dreaming, pain that should have encouraged him to stop whatever madness was about to happen.

But then Sherlock wrapped his hand around him, and John knew it was all a lost cause. He was too hard, wanting sex and release too much, and the mental image of Sherlock licking his own palm was a sort of looped bit of mental pornography that kept John rooted in place as Sherlock stroked steadily, using John’s own fluids as a supplement to the evaporating saliva.

Sherlock looked up from his work, and the eye contact caused John to dig his fingers into the arms of the chair to keep from coming on Sherlock’s face (which would have seemed rude rather than sexy, John found himself thinking). “Hydrogen,” John gritted. “Helium. Lithium Beryllium.”

“The periodic table, John? Now you really are trying to get a leg over on me.” The vulpine smile struck John somewhere competitive and hot, and he was almost seized by a desire to put Sherlock onto his back with a shove and rut himself into orgasm somewhere, anywhere on Sherlock’s bare skin.

“I’m close,” John announced.

“I’m well aware of that. You’re flushing on your neck and cheeks. I can feel the muscle contractions. What do you want?”

“To be...against you. I want to...” The rest of the sentence cut off in a groan as Sherlock slid his lips over the head of John’s dick, and John climaxed, ejaculating hard down his (platonic, God, until now, platonic) flatmate’s throat.

Sherlock stood and headed for the bathroom, where John heard him spit into the sink, then rinse his mouth with water. Then, quite audibly, Sherlock unzipped and hit the pump on the (pine-scented) lotion several times. John covered his face with his hand as he listened to the slick sounds of Sherlock stroking himself into an efficient orgasm of his own. The sound of Sherlock humming a perfect third and gripping the sink with one hand induced residual aching waves of lust, and John held onto his own softening dick for longer than was strictly necessary to put himself away.

Then the bathroom door swung closed.

John stripped down to his usual spring bedtime attire of his hoodie and cotton pyjama pants and slid into his bed. Despite the last rather eventful 20 minutes, John was socked with exhaustion, and when his head hit the pillow, he closed his eyes with relief. Not longer after he did, Sherlock emerged from the bathroom in a similar nighttime uniform--tee instead of hoodie, addition of a dressing gown--and, rather than collapse into his own twin bed, made his way over to John and unceremoniously threw himself half on top of his swaddled roommate.

“Ouch,” John grumbled half-heartedly.

Sherlock responded by cinching his left arm tightly around John’s upper body and emitting a sort of masculine purr.

Picking up his face from his pillow and forcing his eyes open for what he hoped was the last time for several hours, John asked (very rhetorically), “This is completely cocked up. You know that, right?”

Sherlock closed his eyes, quirked a corner of his mouth into a sort of facial shrug.

After inhaling deeply, then closing his eyes, John added, “And you smell like floor cleaner.”

That earned a chuckle. “I admit to not thinking through the consequences of the complimentary lotion.”

* * *

When John awoke at half-past ten, he felt refreshed and famished; Sherlock was already out of bed and having a morning cuppa with Greg.

They went about their day as if nothing had ever happened.

**III. After The Fall**

There were many feelings to sort out after Sherlock’s re-emergence in his life--relief, anger, more anger--but the one John hadn’t anticipated was the achy, pining feeling he had when, after days of nearly round-the-clock contact, either awake and talking or sleeping in various corners of the living room, he and Sherlock retired to their own bedrooms.

John stayed awake for an hour watching the clock on his nightstand tick away. He tried reading himself into a snooze; no good. Then John tried to think peaceful thoughts, but all that came to mind was Sherlock’s grave in that quiet country churchyard and how the sounds of the city--traffic, people, sirens--seemed so absent it made John nervous, unconvinced that Sherlock would be able to find eternal rest there.

The last bit drove him from his bed down the stairs. Sherlock’s door was closed, which was almost enough to send John to his chair in the sitting room or back to his own room. But the nagging hope that seeing Sherlock alive and sleeping would be a sufficient balm moved him to the door, where he tapped and awaited a response.

Receiving none, John cautiously opened the door and whispered “Sherlock?”

Sherlock was sitting up against his headboard, his violin cradled to his chest, wide awake.

“Hello, John.” It reminded John, in an almost visceral way, of seeing Sherlock for the first time after his resurrection, the way he’d said “hello” as if they were meeting each other at airport baggage after a long, unwanted trip.

“Hello.” John clung to the door, like ship wreckage.

He wondered if that made Sherlock’s bed the rescue boat.

“Trouble sleeping?”

“I thought obvious questions were my line.” Sherlock smiled. He hadn’t done much of that since coming back. Then again, John had made precious few jokes.

Sherlock threw back the covers on the right side of the bed; John took in a hard, sharp breath.

Then, like always, John was compelled forward. Because Sherlock would lead him into something mad and frustrating, but also exhilarating and right.


End file.
